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A needle into a bug [closed]


Cloiser Woods, WA | Early autumn
This all was becoming so unbearable, that even the most stubborn and self-sufficient teen would've seriously been considering seeing a counsellor. The teacher, mister whoever-the-fuck-he-was, was talking something about mathematical probabilities - at least Peter could've made this conclusion by overhearing words "dice" and "chance" - but it was hard to pay attention. He felt as if underwater, near an erupting volcano. As if huge pressure was squeezing his temples and pushing him down, thick salt water oozing into his ears, crawling its slippery fingers inside his skull. Perceived heat around him was making the skin sweat, needing to try and take off as much of warm clothes as possible, but the cold autumn morning's chill also made him shiver. And yet, no person and no thermometer found him too cold or hot. By medical standards, he was absolutely fine, maybe even healthier than he should be with all the time he spends hunched over the books.

It all started innocent enough: a few nights of long dreams about nothing in particular, leaving the young man exhausted. He could've spent up to twelve hours in bed, and wake up as if he had no rest at all. There was a logical explanation, however. After all, Peter spent enormous amount of time and effort to clean his room from all the wax and pig blood once he was done with his new ritualistic hobby. Even the school coach would've been impressed by how long and hard he worked, just so no one would ask any weird questions about the blood stains forming into an odd symbol on the floor - the last thing he needed is to be locked up into an institution with some real weirdos. This brought up a few disturbing dreams after. Nothing specific. These were just your ordinary dreams and nightmares and teenager would see when they closed their eyes for the night, but they had just one thing in common that made them absolutely terrifying. All the way through, whether it was a dream about falling off a cliff, or the one about seeing a new film, hooking up with someone, or setting school on fire, - every time there was a feeling that someone was watching. Closely. One might've said a "nagging" feeling, but it was far from nagging. If anything, it was needling its teeth into his flesh, and tearing at him; it felt as if he was surrounded, tight, by tall, invisible figures, looking at him, and over him, hanging behind his shoulders, looking down with their large, wet, unblinking eyes at all times, whatever he did, however far he ran, however loud he screamed to leave him alone. Once he closed his eyes, this feeling of being watched - paranoid and intrusive - was there, crawling into his most intimate dreams and most terrifying nightmares. And lately... lately he was getting a feeling these things that he dreamt of - ethereal, unseen and ghostly, were getting into the real world.

Whereas for the last week or two, to escape he needed only to wake up to the bright and colourful wold... at least, bright and colourful for many other people, but naturally gloomier for him... now it almost seemed like he was watched even as the dream ended, and life began. It was easy to brush off: he was tired and paranoid, and was looking around to see a person staring... and in so doing made people actually stare at him. "What a weird kid", they thought. "Is he all-right?", they asked themselves. "Maybe he's lost", they whispered, but no one dared to approach and ask. Not like they would've gotten a satisfying answer if they tried.

...this happens sometimes to people. They are getting hurt, or sick, or even old! - and they don't even notice. So what if they are a little fatigued, so what if they are going to sleep a bit earlier? Such things happen. And then, after weeks, months, or even years, one day they realise in how much pain they actually are, and how long they didn't notice it. This was probably the case with Peter now. These symptoms he felt were growing slowly, and until today - until right now, in the middle of some sort of maths problem no one cares about, - became absolutely impossible to ignore. All the sounds, and all the voices dull, as if heard through a thick layer of water, head pulsing, his heartbeat echoing in it like war drums, and invisible hands squeezing his head - not in a painful way, but enough to be noticeable at all times. Eyes blurry, and vision dimmed, as if someone was sucking all the colours out of the world around. His skin cold from the draft around the room and the cool wind of the fall, and yet, a fire burning inside of him, making him sweat, forming small drops of tears in his eyes. Muscles feeling as if they were made out of soft fibre, barely able to hold a pencil right. And the most terrifying and irritating thing - besides the fact that these symptoms were not tied to any physical sickness - was that no one cared. They whether didn't notice how he felt, or chose to ignore it. No one cared. No peers in the class, none of his parents or siblings, not the teacher, not the school guard, not even the fucking cafeteria lady! They chose to see him as being absolutely healthy. Normal. Was that how they perceived him at all times? Was that who they thought he was? A snivelling, trembling, absent-minded kid?

And now... now his vision was growing darker. Maybe this was a result of Peter not having enough sleep, and his brain shutting down on its own. Thank god. Maybe, there would be this nightmare about being watched again, but at least he won't be suffering from being hot and cold, oversensitive and not feeling anything, all at the same time! Like in the vintage films, a dark aura was forming in the corners of his eyes, all grainy, covering his vision with the mix of black smudges and occasional bright spots, like the ones he'd see if he'd press his palms tight to the closed lids. There was a small movement in that darkness, as if a scared animal was lurking in his peripheral vision. The classroom felt quieter and quieter, as if this layer of unseen water was growing thicker, and it brought some relief. One less sensation to go through. His eyes were hot, almost scorchingly so, and lids closing, as if he was going to fall asleep.

But he did not.

Just as the world almost grew silent, and the voice of the middle-aged chubby teacher grew into a dull, indistinguishable and barely perceived nonsense, he was jolted awake from his half-slumbering state. "Hey, Pe-e-ete-e-er...!" - The gentle voice was heard right over his left ear. It wasn't dulled like the rest of the sounds, loud whisper being the first thing for the last few days he managed to hear normally, scratching his eardrums like nails over chalkboard. At the same time there was a clear sensation of a gentle touch on the back of his neck, as if someone ran their fingers lightly over his skin, tips barely touching his body, like a spider crawling. Problem was, of course, he was sitting in the last row. There was no one behind him but the wall, and an old ad from a year before about the school inviting anyone of sufficient skill join the drama class.
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drmr boy
Peter simply couldn't sit still. His knee bounced up and down as he almost eagerly chewed at the nails on his left hand. He was just so... uncomfortable. Lately the world seemed to be much more hostile towards the boy. Clothes that he'd owned for years were suddenly scratchy and unbearable. Innocent winds sounded like whispers that were taunting him. However these weren't the worst things happening to him. No, that prize went to the eyes. Eyes that he could never see but the ones that were always watching. Of course, he couldn't tell anyone about this. He'd tried with his friend Henrik, but instead ended up sounding completely insane. So he wrote it off as lack of sleep and tried to forget about it. Ignoring it completely was an impossible task. Even now he could feel it. Whatever it was. Sinking its claws into his skull, trying to find a weak spot.

A quick glance around the room brought no solace. Though he felt the eyes on him today stronger than he had been the past few weeks, there was no culprit who was immediately obvious. A soft sigh escaped his lips and he pulled his fingers away to study them. Bloodied. He'd gotten to close to his nail beds. Yet there was no pain. Or at least the pain wasn't enough to distract him from the other sensations he was feeling. It was almost as if his head was stuck in an invisible vise. Squeezing and squeezing until eventually his brains would ooze out from his ears, leaving behind a corpse that taunted "I told you so". Because he had told them so, not so much with his words but with his actions. Didn't anyone notice? Why didn't anyone notice he wasn't okay?

His teacher droned on, as unaware of Peter in the back of the classroom as Peter was of whatever was being taught. Words were being spoken, that was a certainty, but Peter was unable to decipher a single syllable. For all he knew, Mr. Krager could be speaking an entirely different language. Everything was muffled, drowned out by a ringing that was practically ever-present. If he thought about it deeply enough, he could draw conclusions that the ringing and the headaches both started around the same time. Chronic migraines would be the most obvious answer, and the one that his brain wanted to immediately latch onto. But these weren't the only issues that started occurring all around the same time. The eyes. The nightmares. Only one event linked them all together, but Peter wasn't that far down the rabbit hole. Not yet, at least. He wasn't crazy.

Darkness crept into the edges of Peter's vision, vignetting the classroom like an artsy foreign film. He closed his eyes, rubbed his lids with the back of his hands briefly, then opened them once more. This did nothing to disperse the darkness in the corners. Maybe he needed this. A quick rest. Maybe since he was at school, and certainly wouldn't fall into a deep sleep, the nightmares wouldn't disturb him. He'd give anything to wake up and feel refreshed for once. Right now it felt like he was running on fumes, on the brink of collapse at any second. So he let his eyes drift closed, the math lesson wasn't important anyways. He welcomed the silence. Bathed in it even. A second passed, then another. He felt safe and his body finally relaxed itself from all the tension.

"Hey, Pe-e-ete-e-er...!"

Something touched him he was certain of it. Peter's eyes flew open and he stood abruptly, sending his desk flying forward noisily and his chair clattering to the ground. A look behind him confirmed what he already knew, there was no one behind him that could have touched him. But he felt it, the icy but brief sensation along the back of his neck. My God, he was truly losing. There were eyes on him. Real ones belonging to his fellow classmates this time. No time to feel embarrassed, he need to get out of there. He needed air. He needed... answers.

"I'm going to be sick," he mumbled, the only explanation he offered for interrupting the class. They watched as Peter made a beeline for the front of the classroom and slipped out of the door. His tennis shoes squeaked angrily as he sprinted down the corridor, narrowly avoiding collisions with anyone who happened to be meandering around outside of class. The bathroom wasn't far and for this he was grateful. He pushed open the door aggressively and grabbed onto the nearest sink. Dry heaves wracked through his body and he fumbled with the knobs. He splashed cool water on his face, but it didn't do much to help him feel better.

"What is wrong with me?"

His reflection stared back at him from beyond the mirror. His already pale skin was now a ghostly white. The fear in his eyes was obvious. Someone called his name. Someone touched him. He was almost certain of it. Or maybe he really was going insane. A wet hand pushed his blonde hair back from his forehead. Leaning forward a bit, Peter squinted at himself. Almost demanding himself to answer the question. Movement in the corner of his vision drew his attention away from the mirror, but there didn't appear to be anyone there with him. Shaking his head, he glanced at himself once more.

"What is wrong with me..?" he repeated, though this time his voice cracked desperately.


The vision blurred, stretching the hallways and numerous doors into long, smudgy, dull-coloured strokes, like an eerie painting of an expressionistic artist; the walls almost twisting into a spiral as the young man rushed to the bathroom.

The humming of lights dug into the skull, reflecting and echoing around. Splashes of water sounded like close waterfalls, as his head pulsed, as if trying to get free out of the clutches of the unseen thing. By the laws of the genre, the light should've flickered, and something should've appeared in the reflection behind, but nothing of this sort happened. Instead, Peter's own pale, exhausted face started back at him, soundlessly asking what was wrong with him. It almost felt like severe poisoning - something any person trying spoiled food at least once could've felt as well. The mix of odd symptoms as the body tried to fight the intrusive chemicals running through its veins now, making the body show every symptom of every sickness one way or the other. Heat and coldness, headache and nausea, sleepiness and hypersensitivity, headache and noise. But for so long?

Peter didn't know it, but something else, something latching itself onto him, was happy. Or whatever the closes to happiness emotion there was there. It was like tuning into a radio station without knowing where exactly it was. It seems like it was close to tuning in, muffled, disembodied voices now fighting through the white noise. Usually, at this point, people went to the church, trying to exorcise whatever devil took them over. More often than not, it failed, but as the thing started perceiving the picture around it, it grew more and more confused by where it was and what was going on. It had no idea what this place even could be, and why would anyone be at school once it realised that. This, however, would not happen in the foreseeable future. Now it was just trying to dig deep into that blond skull; not to understand what it was dealing with, but to try and... settle in, so to speak. Create a link. It almost felt like worms crawling inside the brain despite its lack of nerve endings. Whatever it was, looming over Peter, tried to communicate once more. Previously, when it threw all it had at the contact, it worked, and it tried again. But this time, it was different. It was a failure. Or partially so.

The water - the ethereal one - that was surrounding the young man's head, muffling everything around, flew down, the sudden amount of previously unperceived noises almost deafening. Pipes humming and creaking. Old lamps buzzing and crackling over his head. Voices muffled, but obvious behind the wall - some teacher going through today's lecture. Musical instruments in the distance. Some girl giggling in the female bathroom. Weird scraping from the plumbing behind. And something else... some disembodied whisper that felt like... like coherent words, but not distinguishable at all... as if someone else was talking on the phone, and one could hear the person through the speaker, and understand they were speaking English, but at the same time could not make out anything. This whisper pushed, and pushed, demanding something, making eyes go darker, weight forcing itself on top of the teen's shoulders more and more, before... giving up. It suddenly stopped.

It didn't work.

The thing was angry.

It threw its nonexistent hands up, before slamming them down in frustration. It did nothing to the world around, although peter clearly felt something heavy landing on the sink to his right... but he didn't see or hear anything. It just... felt like something akin to a brick or an especially large book landed there, some vibration from it crawling up his skin. But there was nothing there.
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